Lost Heirloom
by Morning-Tide
Summary: The senet table shattered during the chariot race was a heirloom to one of the players. Here, he shares his frustration on the "recklessness of youth" and his unshakeable fear of "his father's father's father's ghost" haunting him for the rest of his life for losing the heirloom. Rated T for mild language and references to alcohol.


**Lost Heirloom**

My senet table had been passed down from my father's father's father, and now two reckless youths in their shiny new chariots have smashed it into many pieces with their careening chariot racing! My wife has a fragile heart; it is by the mercy of Ra that her soul had not taken flight right there and then! What is with youth today? Their behaviour worsens with each passing year; my father was a good boy in his day, helping old ladies carry heavy goods and giving bread to starving children. He was known to shelter dogs and cats lost in storms brought on by Set. I bet no youth today would ever do such a thing—why, just yesterday, I had seen one _trip _an old lady carrying goods and then walk away, laughing! Anubis better be careful when he places his heart on the Scales of Justice, lest it be so heavy that the Feather is sent flying into the air. Now, if my father had even _thought_ of touching an heirloom without permission—well! There's a paddlin'! The audacity of youth who think they're _so _invincible and _so _above it all heightens with terrible rapidity every year.

Back to today. So there I was, playing a friendly-like game with my brother (I was winning as always). My quiet wife looked on, and my brother's friend watched the game closely (he's on my side, I know it!). It's always such a treat to soak up the sun before the midday lethargy, and what senet game is complete without competition and some hearty beer? We would even take bets on who would win at least three times in a row. The loser (my brother) would then have to swig a mug of beer in one gulp. Needless to say, things often got very tipsy! My brother says some really bizarre stuff when he's tipsy—and the drunker he is, the stranger his remarks. I have a collection of pottery fragments where I have scrawled the most embarrassing comments he made in his beer-infused haze, and those were in a secret hiding place. I knew that if my brother ever found them, he'd toss them into the deepest part of the Nile he could find, first chance he got.

So there we all were, enjoying a normal day, catching up on what happened to us the last twenty or so hours (which was mostly sleeping and snoring), and slinging little harmless insults at each other. That's what brothers do, right? Of course my wife never approved, and though I always suggested she go to her friends or sisters, she always insisted on watching the game. Then each evening, she would complain about how drunk we got. Well, she _does _have her sisters, you know. Still, she insisted on staying with us, and still we played and drank on.

"Your move," I told my brother sitting opposite me. I was winning again, but he seemed to be catching on to some of my tricks.

I watched as he hovered his hand over the board, as he did whenever thinking of his next move. His fingers twitched toward one of the pieces, before changing his mind and putting his hand back down.

"Well?" I pushed, "What's it to be?"

His hand hesitated, fingers hovering once more above the pieces. Just as he lowered his hand to make his move, the table started rattling as the ground thundered under our feet. Distracted, my brother paused, his eyes widening in shock at whatever was galloping up behind me at a careening pace. His mouth moved as though shouting something, but no words came out. The clatter of wheels, the whoop of boys, and the thunder of horses created a cacophony in my ears. I turned my head and yelled, launching myself in a dive toward my door just as two chariots thundered past, the youths whooping without a care. I covered my head, drawing my knees in as I listened to their chariots racing away into the distance, screeching and causing more panic amongst the innocent inhabitants of my neighbourhood. I felt fragments pelt my body at the same moment a sickening crunch and splinter cracked in my ears—and I'm sure I could hear my heart cracking as well.

Muttering curses under my breath, I sat up, rubbing my head. I could make out my brother, his friend, and my wife all with horrified and shocked expressions on their faces. From what I could see, they had all thankfully escaped serious injury. My brother stared dumbly at what was left of the senet table.

"Oh no…" I groaned, stumbling to my feet, unable to tear my eyes away from the horrific carnage at what _used _to be a senet table.

Senet pieces were scattered like felled soldiers on the battlefield, some half-buried in the sand like ancient mummies exposed by dust-storms. Some lay broken on the sand, their injuries beyond the help of even the most proficient physician. Some lay side by side like brothers who refused to die without the other in battle, their deaths a testimony to their sacrifice. Splinters of wood lay in the sand, the chariots having left a trail of death in their wake. The whoops of depraved youth and the thunder of reeling chariots was long gone, but the death of a precious heirloom lay on their collective consciences.

"We'll…we'll get you a new one," my wife said timidly, putting an arm through mine.

I groaned, even as I felt my brother's hand on my shoulder. I moved away, not in the mood for consolation.

"My father's father's father's ghost will be haunting me for the rest of my days," I fretted, head in hands, "He will blame _me_, the one who should have looked after it."

"Don't say that," my brother's friend encouraged, "I'm sure his ghost will know who to haunt."

I didn't believe him even for a moment.

"You're wrong," I complained, "He's going to be so angry." Looking down at a piece of wood, I kicked it hard, sending it scattering through other felled comrades. "_I'm _angry! I'm going to find their chariots and tear them apart with my bare hands, wheel from wheel!"

"And I'll strangle the hooligans for you," my brother offered, "While you're busy with their chariots."

"Thanks, brother," I gritted my teeth, "I'll let you win every game afterwards if you do that for me."

He roared with laughter. "It gets boring losing after a while—I'll take you up on that offer!"

My wife drifted past me, "I'm going to see my sister."

_Good for her—she's doing what she should have done all along during these senet games!_

"Go ahead, see your sister," I waved her away, "I'll see you this evening."

My brother knelt down in the sand, picking up any undamaged senet pieces that he could find.

"I got a spare one at home," he told me as he stood back on his feet, "I can give it to you—it's better playing at your place than mine anyway."

But I didn't want it—wasn't his senet table his?

"No, you can keep yours," I insisted, "It's yours after all."

"I insist—I can always get a new one."

"It won't be the same." I said, dejection sinking in me—along with the fear of my father's father's father's ghost.

"Really, I insist."

"You know, I'll be even happier if I can somehow get this back in one piece." I looked up at where the two chariots had disappeared into the distance.

"All things don't last forever," this was my brother's friend "assurance". I was not comforted at all. If you ever lost something so dear to you and your family, you will know how it is, how you know that there will never be a senet table as special as the one passed into your care as an heirloom.

"Nothing will replace it ever," I groaned, "Nothing. Not all the senet tables in the world. No don't bother trying to assure me."

I kicked weakly at a fragment of the senet table in the sand, wanting so much to have never been the one whose misfortune in life—greatest misfortune—was to lose the heirloom of his father's father's father.

_I'm going to see his ghost tonight, and there is nothing I can do about it, but wish so fiercely he haunted the two youths—I don't care if they're princes or not—and not me. _

"You know what?" I turned to my brother, "Next time an heirloom is passed down to me, I'm passing it to you. Agreed?"

He just grinned.

"Let's just have a beer. That'll wash away our sorrow. We'll be singing our hearts out about lost heirlooms and our father's father's father haunting you before long. I'm still giving you that senet table anyway."

"Is it an heirloom?"

He threw his head back in laughter. "Why, funny you should ask! It is in fact an heirloom I intended to pass down to my son."

I glared at him, not saying anything.

"With brothers like you, who needs enemies?" I growled.

"Depends on the enemy, doesn't it?" he grinned even wider, "If that enemy is our father's father's father's enraged ghost…I'll just say better you than me."

"Some brother you are," I shook my head, but found I was starting to smile myself, "Come on, let's drown the loss of my heirloom in a good mug of beer."

_And I want to drink enough so that I will never be awakened by the screaming visage of my father's father's father's ghost as soon as he finds out his heirloom is gone, thanks to the recklessness of youth. _

If I ever see another heirloom in my life, my brother will be the one to receive it, not me, who seems to attract death and destruction to precious heirlooms that had been entrusted in me. Please, don't make me talk anymore about it.

No more heirlooms, please.

Right now, I just need a bloody drink.


End file.
